


On My Shoulder; In My Heart

by melo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hallucifer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 7.17 The Born-Again Identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On My Shoulder; In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ.

Castiel isn’t sure of how long he sits on the edge of the hospital bed.

Since he has taken the visions of Lucifer upon himself, Castiel isn’t sure of anything. He doubts the existence of those around him. He cannot keep track of the passage of time. He cannot even trust his own senses, angelic or human.

The only thing he can trust is the infallibility of his form. He need not eat or sleep and he will continue to exist. Even if the humans begin to notice the strangeness of his body, there’s not much they can do. They may experiment on him, fill him with drugs or split open his flesh, but it won’t hurt; and if they manage to kill him, it hardly matters. The only pain comes from his mind where Lucifer sings hymns so old and beautiful and lost that Castiel thinks he could weep – such perfect echoes of Heaven.  

Sometimes, Lucifer settles himself behind Castiel, wraps his arms around his waist – Nick’s chin propped on Jimmy’s shoulder – and unfurls his many wings and reveals his many heads, and Castiel will stare at their shadows on the wall until he sees nothing at all.

Other times, Lucifer will talk. He’ll talk about their brothers and sisters. He’ll talk about their Father. He’ll talk about all the things he’s seen and done, and sometimes he’ll make jokes – Castiel knows they’re jokes because Lucifer tells him they are – and chuckle to himself as Castiel does his best to remember Lucifer isn’t really sitting beside him.

Then there are the times Lucifer will conjure illusions and bring him to a long and dusty road, riding in the familiar clutch of a sleek black car.

Those times are the worst.

Lucifer will feed him the sounds of voices nearby – most often Sam’s and Dean’s – and then he’ll see demons closing in on all sides, and the urge to smite will rise up like acid in the back of his throat. His hands will reach out to touch the nearest body, the cleansing fire burning just beneath his skin, but at the last moment he always remembers where he is and why. Then Castiel will fold his hands back into his lap, determined not to cause accidental and undue harm to the people around him. He can’t even bring himself to wish harm on Meg, her smirking face a stinging comfort in the confusion of his world. So Castiel sits on the edge of the hospital bed and lets time pass in fits and starts, alternately slowing down and speeding up depending on how he blinks his eyes.

Eventually, after what might be four days or four months since Lucifer began plucking the feathers from Castiel’s wings, Castiel notices that something has changed in the physical realm of his little hospital room. There is something across his shoulders and something tucked down his shirt.

Or so it seems.

Castiel shrugs off his doubts – such a difficult thing to do – and examines his possessions.

Draped across his shoulders is Jimmy’s – his – old trench coat. The material is rough and worn, but there is little blood in the fabric and what is left is in the form of faded brown stains. The coat lacks the tacky feeling Castiel has learned accompanies particularly filthy clothing, and bringing one sleeve to his nose, Castiel can smell the cloying scent of industrial soap. Castiel can infer that one of the orderlies must have laundered and returned his coat, and something inside him is soothed by the allowance of this familiar thing.

Moving on to the next new object, Castiel presses a hand to his stomach and traces the small rectangular shape under his cotton tee. Someone has tucked his shirt into the waistband of his pants, and when Castiel finally pulls the hem free, a cheap cell phone slides out into his lap.

There are scratches on the casing and a thin crack running along the back like it's been dropped one too many times. Castiel doesn’t recall his acquisition of the phone and he doubts the hospital allows this of patients, but judging by the location of his discovery, he suspects Meg has something to do with it. Whatever the case, Castiel is only interested in the notification on the display and ignores Lucifer’s teasing, “You’ve got mail.”

 

_29 New Messages_

 

His fingers feel excessively clumsy as he presses the keys to open the oldest message, and his effort is rewarded with a text sent from the only phone number he has memorized.

 

_Remember, we’ll come back for you.  
– Sam_

 

Castiel ignores the weight that settles in his chest upon reading who the sender is. It’s not a surprise, seeing as Sam has always been the more forgiving of the two brothers and Castiel has committed what could be considered the ultimate offense to Dean, but a part of Castiel had still hoped.

“Hope is the thing with feathers,” Lucifer says, standing at the other end of the room, fingers tracing up and down the condensation on the window, drawing lines like the bars of a cage.

As usual, Castiel gives no response though Lucifer doesn’t have to turn around to know that Castiel’s knuckles have gone white around the phone, and Castiel doesn’t have to look to know that Lucifer is smirking.

It’s not until Castiel returns to the inbox that he notices that all the messages were sent from Dean’s number across the course of nearly three months. Unable to think of a good reason for the brothers to switch phones on so many occasions, Castiel begins flipping through the messages as quickly as his unpractised fingers can manage.

While he doesn’t know what exactly transpired to spark each text and he doesn’t know the precise meaning of each message, Castiel drinks them in; all the slang, every misspelling, the nonsense character groupings and misuses of punctuation.

 

_sams eyebrow got burned off by a ghost_

 

_found a motel wit magic fingers  
no quarters tho  :(_

 

 _ganked a vamp_  
2  
vamp ghost combo pack

 

_case with a tentcle monster  
ew_

 

_i miss salt n burns  
classic_

 

“Hmm, this again,” Lucifer says absently from across the room. Castiel doesn’t bother looking up and just continues scrolling through the messages; barely breathing like the movement of his diaphragm might erase the letters from the screen and dispel the warmth spreading through his body. The feeling is almost suffocating and the trench coat is stifling, but Castiel enjoys the sensation after an eternity of numbing dread.

 

_just had piecaken  
i came_

 

 _snuffed a nest o big mouths_  
no broken bones  
h5

 

“As in ‘high five,’ remember? Celebratory hand gesture.”

 

_looking for bigfoot  
nvm its just sam_

 

_sam ran over a deer_

 

_Dean ran over that deer.  
– Sam_

 

_going camping lol  
cross my fingers its a bear attk_

 

It seems that Dean is in much better spirits with a healthy Sam back at his side, and it eases some of the guilt that has been churning through him. Castiel knows he doesn’t deserve forgiveness and he knows these texts aren’t a pardon of any sort, but they’re an olive branch, and he clings to it like a drowning man left behind by Noah’s ark. He betrayed Sam and Dean’s trust and he has been abandoned as he deserves, but maybe he doesn’t have to resign himself to the prison of his mind. Lucifer is his jailor yet by some miracle, outside, there are people who still think of him, and that is–

Castiel almost drops the phone when it suddenly buzzes. He has to clamp down on the unexpected anger that simmers up at the amused chuckle Lucifer hides behind a hand.

 

_1 New Message_

 

Castiel reverently opens the new message. He had wastefully sped through the last twenty-nine messages and is determined to treat this new one as the special thing it is. They’re the only scraps of care being thrown his way, and Castiel wants to savour it before even this small mercy is lost to him.

 

_flat tire no spare_

 

Castiel closes his eyes and pictures a petulant scowl on Dean’s face, likely worn while delivering a kick to the punctured tire of an anonymous and outdated car, the latest source of his annoyance. The text was probably keyed in with one thumb while Dean’s other hand was buried in his coat pocket, the weight of the limb dragging the fabric taut and creating a faux-wing that flaps with every unconscious swing of his arm. Dean has a habit of strutting around his car like that when he’s impatient–

Castiel’s imaginings are interrupted by a second buzz.

 

_i miss the impala_

 

“Poor baby,” Lucifer coos, reading over Castiel’s shoulder, “Kiss it better. FYI, use ex’s and oh’s.”

Castiel makes the mistake of jerking away from Lucifer’s sudden proximity, earning a smug smile from the other. He considers returning to his customary position at the edge of the bed, but the damage has been done. So instead, Castiel retreats to one end of the bed and presses his back to the bars of the headboard, phone tucked close to his body to prevent further interruptions from Lucifer.

Lucifer only shrugs, pouting like he can’t be bothered to exert more energy in his games, and sprawls across the mostly unoccupied bed, hands clasped behind his head and legs crossed with one ankle on his crooked knee. Lucifer begins bellowing an aria at the ceiling, his hoarse voice accompanied by the lazy bobbing of the foot in the air, but Castiel doesn’t mind. It’s the least disturbing thing Lucifer has done, and Castiel is almost thankful for it as he struggles to compose a response on the tiny buttons of the phone.

 

_If you need, I can provide transport._

 

Castiel holds his breath as he waits for a response. It takes longer than it should, but he supposes Dean must not be expecting a reply. Not after months of silence.

Then finally:

 

_hah no_

 

Castiel flinches though he doesn’t know why.

 

_I could return before my absence is noticed._

 

_dont  
not while the devils ur freaking co pilot_

 

_I’m much better now. Lucifer has quieted._

 

He knows he still shouldn’t offer while he’s in this condition, but he doesn’t know what else to say; what else he can give. He wants to help in every way he can, to atone though he can never be redeemed, and he needs to be useful because as long as he is useful, surely they will not forget him. He doesn’t know why it’s important, but it is – that they remember.  

 

 _still no_  
air angel is grounded  
stay in ur room

 

_Very well._

 

 _sams getting a new tire_  
helluva walk  
we re in the middle of nowhere

 

_As am I._

 

There’s a long pause in which Castiel wonders if he texted something wrong. The room feels so cold, and then:

 

_listen  
we ll fix this_

 

It’s just a text message, but Castiel can see it; the serious set of Dean’s face, the way his eyes would dart to and away from Castiel’s like a nervous creature testing the water before finally settling, resolved, and then Dean would seem to be the one who can see through time and space. His eyes always begged trust from whoever he looked at, and it was only ever the crack in his voice that betrayed the lie.

It’s a text message, but Castiel can still hear it, that crack in an already rough voice. So he lies too.

 

_I know._

 

“I keep telling you, a healthy relationship is an honest relationship,” Lucifer’s voice is muffled by the sheets he’s pulled over his head. “I’d tell you to listen too, but you never do.”

 

_trust me we ll fix this somehow_

 

_I know._

 

_i promised i wouldnt leave u there_   
_remember?_

 

Castiel turns his face into his shoulder – such a human thing to do – as if by hiding his blank face, by curling into himself he can escape Lucifer’s presence. Castiel reads Dean’s words over and over again – a mantra to block out Lucifer’s pleased humming – and breathes ‘yes’ with every exhale.

It’s difficult but Castiel reminds himself that Lucifer is only a construct of the mind – and not even of his own mind – a collection of twisted thoughts and the stray wisps of a damaged soul, transferred from Sam’s conscience to his own. With enough time, it’s possible he can lock Lucifer into a new cage in his psyche, a jail for his jailor, and he will be free of this madness and torture–

“Oh Cas, Cas, Cas. I’m not that bad, really. You’ve never needed a devil on your shoulder.” Lucifer smiles fondly up at Castiel from where he’s nestled himself in the white sheets, “And don’t be so dramatic. I’m not your  _jailer_. The only one keeping us here is  _you_.”

Castiel leaps off the bed and marches to the window, needing to calm down before he gets into an argument with a hallucination.

“Come on, Cas. You just have to stop beating yourself up. I mean, what am I doing that’s really so bad? I sing you songs, I keep you up-to-date on the rumour mill – that reminds me, I’ve got to tell you about what happened to the good doctor this morning – and I even give you pretty dreams.”

“Dreams?” The word slips past Castiel’s lips before he can stop it, and Lucifer’s smile widens into a grin. Castiel watches his reflection as Lucifer sits up in the middle of the bed, the white sheets piled around him like snow.

“Yes. I know you’ve always wondered what it’s like – to dream – so I thought I’d show you. I gave you some pretty little daydreams to help with the boredom. Not my fault you keep messing them up.”

“You were deceiving my senses.”

“I thought you liked my work,” Lucifer frowns, “you’re wearing it right now.”

Castiel startles, his head jerking around to glance down at his shoulders. The trench coat is gone.

“Aw, not again. Cas, you’ve got to stop doing that. That was my best one yet,” Lucifer sighs, rubbing a palm across the stubble on his jaw.

“I don’t understand. Why?” Castiel asks, his breath running short. He’s so cold. The condensation on the window is frost.

“I just want you to be happy,” Lucifer says and smiles, his hands spread before him, benevolent and kind.

“You’re lying.”

Lucifer shakes his head, mouth turned down at the corners. “No, little brother, I’m not the one who is.”

The phone buzzes in Castiel’s hand and he fumbles it in surprise – he’d forgotten he was holding it – and it falls to the ground, spinning across the tiles and into the wall. It buzzes and buzzes and Castiel realizes it’s a call, not a text, but it doesn’t matter.

Castiel stumbles backwards, away from the phone and the cold, cold window until the backs of his knees collide with the edge of the mattress and he’s forced to sit down.

“This isn’t real,” Castiel mumbles. He should have known better. The only thing he can trust is the infallibility of his body. His mind is unsound and his senses have been corrupted. He is a betrayer – of his family, his friends, his enemies cum allies – of even himself, and this is what he deserves. There is no forgiveness to be found, no promise to be kept, not even an olive branch to hold, and the hymns of Heaven buzz in his ears – again and again, ringing and ringing – painful like the reverberations of a bell through his chest.  
  
There's a sad sigh in his ear, and then there are arms around his waist and a chin pressed to his shoulder. Wings unfurl around him, spreading out and curling in, hiding the world and hiding him, but Castiel ignores it all. He stares out through the gaps between sparse feathers. He stares until the buzzing stops. He stares until he doesn't see a thing.


End file.
